


Kill Your Darlings

by tinyimplosions



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: F/F, but also includes the last thing in pandora's box, dark and angsty (minus the vampires)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5883517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyimplosions/pseuds/tinyimplosions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The winter months are cruel, but they deliver a valuable lesson to her.<br/>Exploring Carol's psyche - January to April.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill Your Darlings

**Author's Note:**

> \- concrit is most welcome  
> \- enjoy :)  
> (edited 14/2/16 for typos & minor changes)

##  _iii._

The walls were peeling and it smelled of mildew.

They’d tried to warn her, told her to pace herself — three times a week and she’d burn out in no time. As usual, they were missing the whole point. Time itself was the issue — too little of it, gone too fast, like sand flowing through her fingers.

“Shall we start today’s session?”  
  
She waited one long beat before replying. “By all means.”

It wasn’t like she had much of a choice. Any choice, in fact, or she’d get to read Rindy her bedtime story and put her to bed while Florence did her fucking job for once instead of lurking over her shoulder. Yet, here she was anyway. She hadn’t even seen Rindy since the start of February. It was March now.

With a nod, he stood up and walked across the room. She didn’t need to look back to know what came next. Lights turned down, projector switched on and the flicker of images that would eventually blur into a dizzying swirl. She felt sick, and they hadn’t even started on the apomorphine yet.

A chip of paint flaked off the wall. In the corner, the heater whined like a last wheezing breath, a death rattle.

And they call _me_ degenerate, Carol sneered.

* * *

 

At first, she thought she might’ve imagined it — after all, Fred was hardly an interesting conversationalist to begin with. But then, she heard it again. A high-pitched giggle, followed by a squeal.

“Mommy!”

Carol was up from her seat in a second.

“Hello, my darling!”

She knelt down, breath stealing out of her chest not just from the way Rindy barrelled right into her arms. Was it really only five weeks since she’d last seen her darling girl? Rindy seemed to have grown up even more.

“Mommy, I miss you!”

“I’ve missed you too, darling,” she murmured, unable to keep the smile off her face. She could feel the heat of the woman’s gaze on her back — the governess Harge had hired for Rindy. “Shall we go outside and sit for a bit?”

The woman took half a step forward immediately. “Mrs Aird, I don’t think—”

Carol shot her a withering glare.

“I’m sure Fred would like his office back. We’ll just be outside.”

Conveniently, Fred continued staring down at the paperwork on his desk; Carol didn’t wait for a reply before sweeping Rindy up in her arms and leaving the room. In the end, they sat in the waiting area, the far corner from the reception desk. It was far from ideal but Rindy, at least, seemed oblivious to the curious stares.

“Mommy, I brought you a present.”

“A present?” Carol repeated blankly. When had the last surprise she’d gotten been good news?

Rindy squirmed out of her lap and Carol found a bright swirl of colours thrust right into her face. She blinked, and slowly it took shape. It was a drawing — stick figures, three of them; a house; green for the trees and a yellow orb for the sun. The word _home_ was scrawled near the bottom in purple crayon.

“A rememberer. So you don’t forget to come home anymore.You like it?”

Carol drew in a sharp breath, her heart squeezing at the simple logic. She looked past the drawing with the interlinked stick hands, at Rindy, at her dimpled grin.

“I think it’s marvellous,” she said, swallowing down the tightness in her throat.

Rindy’s beam widened. “Sooo…can you read me a story tonight?”

“I…” The ache in her chest bloomed outwards in guilt and regret. “Sorry, sweet pea. Not tonight.”

Rindy pursed her lips, frowned, then she leaned in closer; Carol had to tilt forward to catch her conspiratorial whisper. “But I don’t like Miss Helen. She tells very boring stories.”

Carol chuckled.

“That’s not nice, Rindy,” she said. It was meant as a reprimand but the fondness in her voice softened any trace of sternness in it. She was pleased. Pleased enough to overlook how pathetic it was — clinging onto the words of a five year old like a lifeline, utterly thrilled by the idea that she wasn’t entirely interchangeable. Yet.

Rindy giggled, none the wiser.

“It’s true,” she said, looking hopeful again. “So when can you come home?”

When? What a question, indeed. Carol felt exhaustion leeching back into her bones.

“Soon, my dear. Sometime soon. How about you tell me about your week?”

Rindy face lit up again. She bounced on her feet and launched into an excited chatter about the small puppy that daddy had brought home. How it’d licked her and burped right in her face. Also, she was going to call it Spot and daddy promised to bring her out this weekend to buy Spot a leash and maybe even a sweater.

The entire time, Carol nodded her head, smiled, stroked Rindy’s hair and held her close. Her precious darling, radiant and glowing. It made her heart overflow with joy; but also, it made her ache to see her little girl so happy even when she was barely around.

* * *

 

"Let's talk about Therese Belivet."

Another day, the same room. Every visit, it seemed to look sadder, bleaker, slipping to a state of further disrepair. Or maybe that was just her.

You’d think that after all that she drank, she would sleep like a rock. But her mind delighted in conjuring up the vividest of dreams, drawing at the very thoughts she tried to tuck deep in the recesses of her mind. There was a sense of cruelty to it, almost like her mind retaliating for what it had to put up with during the day. Yesterday was no different. She’d barely gotten any sleep and now her head was throbbing.

“You haven’t been in contact with the subject in question?”

_Subject in question._

Lately, the tick of annoyance felt more like dull static in her chest, almost boredom.

“No,” she said.

He nodded. He hadn’t been expecting any other answer. Still, he considered her for a moment before scribbling something down in his notes.

Carol wondered if he could hear the regret in her voice.

* * *

 

She crossed her arms and surveyed the room. She’d finally managed to settle the paperwork for the lease yesterday, in the very last week of March. Now, it was just a matter of deciding what came along to her new apartment and honestly, she felt like throwing everything out.

Carol narrowed her eyes, scrutinising the coral davenport that was against the far wall. Well, there was that.

It’d been there for so long she didn’t even see it anymore. The summery colour wasn’t to her taste any longer, but it reminded her of all those years ago and the streak of defiance that had prompted her to plant it down amidst all the dated Victorian decor. Harge had hated it — hated its sleek, modern profile, and used to frown every time he walked past. Just thinking about that made her smile.

But, in the end, there it sat anyway. Forgotten, unwanted, faded out of season.

She’d throw it, Carol decided abruptly. She didn’t need it, and there wasn’t much use holding onto all these memories, hoping to be anchored down when in fact, they were drowning her bit by bit.

She took out a cigarette and walked to the dresser in search of a lighter. It was in the first drawer but when she took it out, something else fell right onto the floor. Carol looked down. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t realised she’d kept that.

Bending down, she picked up the notecard. It was plain blue and gold, and slightly crumpled. There was a stain at the bottom right corner from the scotch that’d dribbled over the rim of her glass when she rescued it from the bin.

_Salutations from Frankenberg’s Department Store._

Carol traced a hand over the single line of script. She imagined how Therese’s face might have looked when she’d written it. The same way as when she did everything else probably — fiercely determined and with pinpoint focus.

On a whim, she decided that this had to go too, and flicked the note into the waste basket.

 

##  _i._

_Dearest._

That’s how it would start, Carol decided.

It was long past the last of the fireworks, past the mouthful of champagne that had bubbled down her throat, and first tentative brush of Therese’s lips against hers. Really, it should’ve been telling when she’d already begun composing the words before the night was even over. It was new and already ending.

She didn’t think Therese understood exactly what she’d meant, earlier, that she was sorry. Sorry for everything that might happen later. But Therese looked at her with hope and wonder in her eyes and later had seemed like such a vague, indistinct concept when there was here and now. All Carol registered was the thrum of her pulse reminding her that she was alive. Auld Lange Syne had been playing in the background and she’d leaned down and kissed Therese.

It was hours later now, and Therese tugged at her again. Closer closer closer, she whispered. Any other time, Carol might have laughed at the insistence but she felt it too. The same visceral need drawing her closer, the same longing to search for that missing piece of herself she’d somehow found in Therese.

“Carol…” Therese breathed out, and it was an exercise of sheer will that kept her from reaching for Therese in a wet, lingering kiss.

She didn’t like the desperation that edged into Therese’s voice. Not tonight, not when her heart was swelling with love.

So instead, she traced a hand down Therese’s side and marvelled at the flush it created on her skin, the way her eyes fluttered shut. Then, leaning closer, she whispered in her ear, “We’ve got the night ahead yet, darling.”

Time was slipping past and the tighter her grasp, the faster it flowed.

“And the day?” Therese asked after a beat, barely a whisper, like she too was afraid by the sheer audacity of her own words.

She wasn’t just asking for a day.

For the briefest moment, Carol let her imagination loose. She thought of morning kisses and lazy Sunday afternoons and bodies tangled together so closely they couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. It was nice.

The grip on her shoulder blades tightened. Fingernails bit into her skin and that felt nice too, to be tethered down, in this moment. Therese stared at her with painful searching honesty and finally, Carol smiled, nodded. “And the day, of course.”

What was one more white lie? It was new and already ending; soon, she would be gone too.

* * *

 

A day later, again before dawn, Carol was awake. They hadn’t turned off the lights tonight either and she sat by the bed, a blank sheet of paper on the small desk beside. It was time to write down the words she meant to say, and it was much harder than she’d expected.

She looked down at the bed, at Therese, at her face that was half-hidden under sleep tousled hair. Carol wondered how long it would take for time and maturity to wipe the guilelessness off her features. The kiss of youth, with all that unmined potential and her future stretching endlessly on; soon, Carol would be reduced to a mere speck in her past.

Did that make her a bad mother, Carol wondered, for even entertaining the prospect, for imagining Therese there — in ten years, twenty, thirty.

Everything was shifting too fast. She’d known _later_ wouldn’t be too far off but she never realised it would become _now_ quite so soon. In the end, she was just another fool who had played with fire and ended up getting burnt herself.

And she wanted to explain all that and more, that none of this had been her intention yet she didn’t regret anything. But it was too hard to explain and Carol didn’t think she understood it exactly herself either — how she could feel this much grief without even a body to bury.

All the same, it was almost time to leave and she had to start somewhere. With a sigh, she uncapped the pen and started with the one thing she had no doubt about; an unshakable truth that held on even when her entire world was starting to unravel around her at an alarming speed; and so Carol wrote —

_Dearest_ ,

 

##  _ii._

It wasn’t even one week into the year; she’d barely been back two days and they were already hounding her like rabid dogs. Fred, Harge, now him.

“So, tell me, Carol — what brings you here?”

He flashed her an easy smile but it only grated on her nerves more.

To be fair, she’d made the appointment herself. After yesterday’s discussion with Fred and all that talk on damage control, she’d dialled the number before losing her nerve and arranged it early enough that she wouldn’t be waiting around those extra few hours a miserable wreck. But really, it was too early. Her neck ached, her stomach was turning and her head throbbed from those last three drinks she shouldn’t have taken. Across the table, his smile widened, entirely undeterred by her silence.

_Oh, damn it all. Did she really have to repeat herself after filling in all those damned forms?_

“I was under the impression you’d been informed about the urgent—”

“No, of course, the court case.” He cut over her with a sweep of his hand. “I’m aware of that and I’ll definitely be doing my best to help rectify your...aberrant habits.“ He paused, leaned forward, and looked at her in earnest; the pounding in her head worsened. “But what I’d like to know is what _you_ want to get out of this.”

She pursed her lips. “Right now, I’m just thinking of Rindy, my daughter.”

“Ah yes, your daughter. You love her very much?”

_What a question!_

“Of course,” she snapped.

He raised both hands immediately in a pacifying gesture. “I’m just trying to get a fuller picture of the situation. Look, how’s this — tell me about your childhood.”

“My childhood?” Carol frowned.

“Studies have shown a high correlation between instances of maladaptive behaviour and dysfunctional family units. Or even just a specific event stemming from childhood. It would help me understand how to assist you.”

For a moment, Carol thought she might reach over the table and throttle him. At least then she’d have a reason to drive the forty minutes it took to get here. West Orange. Saddlebrook Institute.

Instead, she took a calming breath and valiantly forced the anger back down her throat.

God, she needed a _fucking_ drink.

* * *

  
“It gets better.”

Abby’s voice was laced with sympathy. Sadness too, just enough for Carol to hear in it the understanding that was borne from experience. She glanced up to find Abby’s mouth twisted in a slight smile, not entirely humourless but far more bitter than a smile ought to be. With that came a jolt of realisation.

“I haven’t changed a bit, have I?” she said. She leaned back against the wall and shut her eyes.

“Stop it,” Abby said. “You have any idea how much money I lost from the furniture shop?”

The absurdity of the statement caught her off guard and Carol laughed.

“Tell me again what you’re doing in Hoboken.”

Abby shrugged. “Figured something’s bound to stick eventually. The law of averages or something.”

They sat in silence for a while, the unspoken apology still on the tip of Carol’s lips. But so much time had passed since and it felt too selfish to bring it all back up now.

Come out sometime,” Abby said suddenly. “I could really use some help with the restorations.”

It was a sweet offer. Almost like before, Abby had said the last time. _Before_. That was the problem though — all that latching onto the past when she was starting to feel like an imposter in her own skin.

“I…we’ll see. I’m thinking of finding an apartment down in New York.”

“Well, that’s wonderful! New start and all.”

Carol turned to her, saw that Abby was pleased, and that made her feel better.

“But…Maybe after everything tides over...”

Abby nodded. “You’d better,” she said, and reached out to squeeze her hands. 

Just like that, memories that time and distance had mellowed came rushing back to Carol.

There was her, ten years old and curious of the rough-and-tumble brunette next door with a mischievous smile. Then, on the same summer, wide open fields and exchanging silly gossip under the afternoon sun. Months turning into years, and tearing open letters dated weeks ago from France evolved into tennis on Saturday afternoons. Much later yet, her signature side-by-side Abby’s on a business contract and every fibre of her being _needing_ that vibrant red settee so God help that man if he outbid her for it while Abby cackled by her side. Even after that, the whine of a dying engine and hesitant lips that already tasted regret on the first caress.

And yet, here they were anyway. Faded dreams, humbled by time, and nursing wounds no one could see. Carol felt a surge of affection, a mixture of relief and gratitude. She’d have wanted it no other way than to be sitting here with her oldest friend, still by her side.

Even so, there was an emptiness in her heart that refused to dissipate. Carol knew that only one person could fill it up but she’d pushed her away.

* * *

 

The last fifteen minutes before the hour was stretching to an eternity. He was going to ask a question; Carol felt it, and she wished there were a way to shut him up before he even said anything. There wasn’t.

“So, I know the last time I mentioned it you were rather…resistant but—“

“I’m not changing my mind,” she said curtly, immediately catching onto what he was saying.

As usual, he took her firm tone as a challenge — push enough and hopefully she’d crumble. His eyes flashed eagerly as he continued, “Still, I think it'd be very helpful. You’re making excellent progress no doubt, but we should start thinking ahead. What we’re doing now - reshaping your behaviour, forging new associations in your neural pathways, is vital but ultimately we’re just working in a sandbox. We need to consider—”

“Look, I understand“— no, she did not —“but I’m not—“

He raised his voice. “No, _I_ understand how it might sound intimidating, but I assure you, reestablishing physical dynamics in the bedroom will not only be rewarding but also work tremendously in favour of your diagnosis.”

“In the bedroom,” she repeated, stiffly.

He nodded. “Yes, exactly. Sexual inter—“

“I know what happens in the bedroom,” she snapped.

The _gall_.

Using the excuse of science and religion and goddamned morality because to them, it was just an act, isolated and independent of any emotional ramifications. My God. Every second she stayed in this room, she felt its bitter taint leeching into her, withering down her capacity to love — and really, she was just about running on empty.

He sat there with an air of expectancy, waiting for her to say something more.

Finally, she gritted her teeth then spat out, “My answer is still _no_.”

 

##  _iv._

She thought she might’ve felt different, but she felt exactly the same. More jittery than usual, actually. Her fingers shook a little as she held the cigarette to her lips. Everything would be over soon enough. Wednesday’s session was practically just protocol and the hearing would happen before the month was over.

Fred had told her not to get her hopes up too much but honestly, she didn’t even know what she was hoping for anymore. If it were a matter of giving something up, God knows she’d do anything for Rindy — no question. But lately, it was starting to dawn upon her that sometimes it wasn’t a matter of what she could give up, or who she was willing to sacrifice.

“Ma’am, where’d ya like this?”

Carol turned from the window, away from the eighth-floor view somewhere at the north end of Madison Avenue, and her gaze dropped onto the coral davenport that sat by the doorstep. She’d decided to keep it after all — a split second decision for something she had thought long and hard.

The pastel colour looked out of place amidst the earthy tones of the apartment. It also seemed to occupy a solid presence that was painfully optimistic and entirely too presumptuous. Too big in her apartment meant for one. But in a way that was the point she was trying to make — life shouldn’t just be about living with only the things she absolutely needed anymore.

She looked around at the empty space, then gestured towards the corner in the living room; with a grunt, the two movers hauled it off in the direction she’d pointed.

* * *

 

He snapped the file shut.

“You’ve done an excellent job, Carol. I must say it’s been a pleasure working with you the past few—"

“When will the report be ready?” she asked. To hell with pleasantries. She’d wanted to leave half an hour ago and couldn’t bear sitting around a minute longer.

There was an awkward, hanging pause but he recovered quickly from the stilted beat. “Next week the soonest, I’m afraid.”

Carol nodded. It was cutting a little close, already almost mid-April, but it should be fine.

“There’s one more thing though,” he said abruptly and she tried to not feel alarmed. “Like I said, I’m pleased by your progress but I think there’s more we can work on. For instance, rather than diminishing these urges, we could work on elimin—”

“That won’t be necessary,” she cut over him.

“I just think that a court case is expensive and unrewarding."

Carol felt a sudden, wild urge to laugh. All this time and he still didn’t get it.

In a spur of impulsiveness, she leaned forward and stared him straight in the eye. Then, she said, “I’m not here to save my marriage.”

Before he could respond, she stood up and left.

* * *

  
The walls were peeling but Carol barely noticed it.

She took a long drag from her cigarette and stared down at the table, at the blank slip of paper. It was somewhat strange to feel the ground back under her feet again after being in limbo for so long. She hadn’t seen Rindy in eighteen days and Therese, well, to be precise…yesterday. It had just been a glimpse, a side profile crossing the road. Still, Carol was sure that it’d been Therese, and the resolve she felt had expanded and solidified in her chest.

For all the social graces drilled into her the entirety of her childhood, she didn’t feel half as bad as she thought she might’ve about her emotional break yesterday at Fred’s office. And well, _that_ was an emotional break, not the vague “series of events precipitating Christmas" he’d been throwing around the first half of the meeting.

Carol looked up. Around her, the diner was bustling with activity and sunlight streamed in. The weather was warmer now — still a bite of cold, but it was almost spring. Suddenly, it occurred to her, how the feeling she’d been struggling to put words to seemed so much like grasping onto sunlight. Her hands would come up empty but it was there, always, and she could feel its warmth like a fond embrace.

With sudden resolve, she stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray and began to write.

There were so many things she wished for. For her two darlings, for Abby, for herself. But narrowed down to pinpoint necessity, it was so very simple. It was this simplicity, perhaps, that made it so hard to grapple with, and just thinking about it had made her throat feel like closing up. It had never been choice between Rindy or Therese; all she’d ever wanted was to be able to recognise herself at the end of the day.

Just as abruptly, she finished the letter. She glanced through what she’d written, considered the plain honesty of her words and the humble request it held. She wondered if it would be enough.

To her, it might’ve started with a first gaze, warmth licking up her belly and a spark of curiosity. Or maybe, a week later, flipping through the phone book and dialling the unfamiliar number, feeling at every beep as the line connected the urge to slam the receiver back down. But in truth, it had really started with an innocuous notecard and the neat line of script that signed off a package of leather gloves.

_Employee 645-A._

It was sitting on her bedside table back at the apartment — the notecard she’d almost thrown away, twice already. Everyday, it greeted her, both a reminder and a promise, and from it she got a jolt of courage. Everything had finally fallen back into place and they were back to the start. It was her turn now to reach out.

She folded the paper and ran a finger along the edge to flatten it in half. Then, a little shakily, Carol dropped some change onto the table and stepped out. The corner of West 43rd, New York Times headquarters, was a few blocks up and Carol decided she would hand-deliver it. 

The note itself was composed of just five, short lines, but her heart was attached to every single letter on it. And just as months ago, it started in the exact same way because after all this time, this much at least still held true — 

_Dearest Therese,_


End file.
